The duke had refused to greet either of them at his arrival. Instead, he had demanded luncheon in his rooms and a nap, in that particular order. She and Will had been secretly relieved by the respite, but now it appeared they would no longer remain so fortunate.
“I think your dress is splendid,” Will drawled, meeting her gaze in the looking glass. “And if the old codger doesn’t like it, he can bloody well go to hell where he belongs.”
“My lord,” she scolded, aware that as much as she respected and trusted Keats, they ought to at least hold up the pretenses. The duke was Will’s father, after all. “You mustn’t speak thus of His Grace.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like him, and I don’t care who knows it.”
She sighed, her nervousness threatening to get the best of her. Perhaps, she’d reasoned to herself, if she could earn the duke’s respect, she could ease the troubled relationship between father and son. Perhaps there would be a peace between them, or at least a tentative melting of their mutual ice.
“I want to do well by you,” she told her husband. “It wouldn’t do if he thought me an uncouth American bumpkin.”
“There’s no danger of him thinking that, my dear,” Will assured her, his visage grave. “None at all. I disapprove of his monarchal decree that you dance attendance upon him, you know. You needn’t heed him.”
“You could accompany me,” she pointed out, made hopeful by her inner aspirations of reuniting father and son in semi-harmony.
His expression hardened. “No. Give the devil his due. If it’s an audience with my wife that he desires, it’s an audience he shall get. Never let him say we didn’t bend to his whims.”
She wished she could ask him why he’d grown so very serious and bitter, but she was ever aware of Keats’ presence. Instead, she continued her preparations in silence, feeling as if she were the lamb being readied for slaughter. It was most disconcerting.
The duke awaited her in the drawing room. Wilton announced her with a severity she’d supposed only reserved for funerals. Indeed, there was something somber about the entire affair, she thought as she entered the room.
After having spent so much time in her husband’s presence, she noted the similarities between Will and his father at once. They had the same dark mane of hair, though gray dusted the heavily greased strands of the duke’s. His eyes were as blue and probing. The way he carried himself was stiffer and yet still reminiscent of Pembroke, with a signature aura of arrogance. The elder’s whiskers, however, were quite pronounced, his mustache so large it nearly took on the appearance of a small creature.
The effect was almost laughable. She tamped down an inappropriate giggle bubbling up within her throat. Dear heavens, she couldn’t make light of the august man. He held so much of her future within his age-spotted paws.
The duke made an imperious gesture that she supposed meant she ought to sit. Gingerly, she lowered herself to the edge of a particularly uncomfortable settee. The drawing room seemed somehow more imposing with his mere presence. She fussed with the fall of her gown, attempting to hide her nervousness.
“Lady Pembroke,” he said formally when he too had taken his seat once more. “I understand you’ve flourished here at Carrington House.”
She was under the impression only plants flourished, not people, but she wisely kept that opinion to herself. “I’ve merely done my duty.”
“You have not, my lady.” His voice was stern, unforgiving.
His assertion startled her. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” she was bold enough to question him, perhaps a character trait that was down to her proud American heritage. She had worked wonders upon the estate, and with an absentee husband no less. How dare he suggest she had somehow fallen short of his expectations?
“You are to provide an heir.” He impaled her with an impenetrable glare. “You have not done so.”
Goodness. She hadn’t been prepared to speak of such a delicate matter with him. She’d never grow entirely accustomed to the English and their odd notions. She took care in crafting her response. “Your Grace, if you must be so indelicate, then so shall I. The fault of this does not entirely belong to me.”
“I’m well aware of Pembroke’s shortcomings,” the duke growled. “It’s his mother’s blood he has running through his veins. But that’s neither here nor there. I understand that he obeyed me for the first time in his misbegotten life and has returned to share the marital bed with you.”
Victoria stilled. Will had obeyed the duke? Her entire body tensed as though preparing for a blow. She became hyperaware of her surroundings in that moment—the heavy breathing of the duke, the faint footsteps of servants beyond the closed drawing room door, the ticking of the gilded mantle clock.Tick, tick, tick.
She found her voice at last. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me aright,” he snapped. “The earl has begun sharing the marital bed with you as I’ve asked. ‘Tis half a year too late, but I’m counting myself fortunate that it’s better late than never. I’ll not have the duchy going to my cousin’s spineless, wastrel fop one day if Pembroke doesn’t sire a son. You’ll do your duty until I’ve an heir, by God.”
Her mind stumbled to sift and make sense of what the duke had just said. Pembroke had come to her because of an edict given by the duke? He’dobeyed, the duke had said. That meant everything she and Will had shared—every kiss, every moment of passion, every promise—had all been maneuvered by the hateful man before her. How many times had Will told her he had returned a changed man, that he wanted a new beginning, that he’d returned for her and her alone?
Surely he couldn’t have been lying to her the entirety of the time they’d spent together?
Or could he have? She pressed her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. The room seemed to spin around her. She didn’t know if she was going to faint or scream. Will’s words shuffled back through her mind like a deck of cards.
Victoria, I’ve missed you.
I’ve come back to Carrington House because I want to start anew.
I love you.
